Chicks Were Born to Give You Fever
by List of Romantics
Summary: The Flu. Shego. And the Aftermath of a Spring Break Vacation with Kim Gone So Very Wrong?" KiGo


**Chicks Were Born to Give You Fever...**

**By: List of Romantics**

Kim/Shego, Slash**  
**

**Rated M for Mature.  
**

A/N: Many Thanks go to Audio Erotica (Janie), my Beta and fellow perv. She was kind enough to lend me a hand, and for that I'm thankful. As I've added on since my last beta, any errors you find are my own (I'm a Dentist, not a Writer, at least not professionally). I welcome positive or constructive reviews (as well as slavish outpourings of praise), and if you like what I've done, tell others. Like the retail industry, referrals and repeat business are the highest praise. That said, enjoy.

Disclaimer: (Which I like, totally stole from Sobriety ;-p) "Kim Possible" and all characters within (c) The Walt Disney Company and its related entities. Kim Possible created by Mark McCorkle & Bob Schooley. All rights reserved. And it goes without saying I don't profit from this, not one iota, save for my own satisfaction.

* * *

_It was all that god-damned Mickey's fault!_ Every bit of it. _God help that mouse_… If there was ever a "next time," she was going to hit that rat in the face, _really fucking hard! _

It all started with Princess and that damned puppy dog pout! Every bone and fiber of Shego's being, she recalled, violently opposed it. But like that, Shego –after refilling her prescription for Xanax- found herself spending Kimmie's fall break, junior year in college, at the most miserable place on earth –well, in Shego's opinion, anyway.

Sure, Shego did exact a certain perverse thrill at defiling and debauching _every _comfortable cubic-inchof their luxury, Disney hotel suite repeatedly, daily and nightly with the most imaginative, nastiest and toe-curlingly hottest lesbian sex her poor, tortured self could devise. Her favorite had been –in authentic costumes she'd "borrowed" from the park- the erotic adventures of Captain Hook and Tinkerbelle. She'd made for a _very_ naughty, and salaciously sexy Tink, while Capt. Kimmie's "Hook" (which bore no resemblance to a hook, nor was it attached to her hand) was _beyond_ soul-meltingly divine. All nine times, though Shego'd lost count after four, before Tinkerbelle –after her soul rejoined her body- turned the "hook" against the good Captain.

But the trip _was_ still torture. And despite all of Shego's best efforts to spend the week in bed with her lover, like hiding all of Kimmie's clothes (which didn't go over so well), she couldn't escape it. _Hell, _She decided, _was a small world after all._

In all fairness, it wasn't _technically _allMickey's fault that Shego now found herself sick at both ends (literally) with the flu. No, it was the 'legions of screaming, unsupervised free-range, disease-riddled children running rampant like the velociraptors in _Jurassic Park_,' who were to blame. But in her total misery, it was easier just blaming the mouse for the whole disaster to begin with –plus, hating Mickey, plotting his fiery destruction, that small pleasure _did _make her feel better, but physically, not by much.

They had flown back to Middleton the night before to a nearly empty house. Blissfully for both girls, the twins (who went mostly to poach ideas for stuff to build or blow up) had joined their father for a few days at a rocketry symposium in Go City, while Kim's mother was in and out with a full week of surgeries, as well as being next in her group's on-call rotation at the hospital.

Thus it was on a lovely and crisp sunny day in late October, when the rugged beauty of Colorado showcased in autumn's finery of fiery colors against the backdrop of jagged, snow capped granite peaks and cotton-fluff clouds, Shego lay, miserable, alone in the guest bedroom of her girlfriend's parent's house, sick as a dog.

And she really_, really _had to pee.

It was after a breakfast nap, but before lunch; normally the urgency brewing in her bladder would be a trifle, like dealing with the police or crushing her foes mercilessly under a sexy and stylish boot heel: but the work of a moment, and easily solved, though not by fire or her fists and feet. In the grips of illness however –compounded with the fact she was loathe to leave the warm, comfortingly decadent slice of horizontal heaven, AKA the Possible's guest bed- a simple trip to the bathroom wasn't so simple.

Alone in her room, her lover off doing god only knew what in the quiet house, out of reach and unable to help, it was a struggle just to get vertical for the blazing beauty. Who knew down pillows and comforters exerted such a strong gravitational force on sick people?

Dressed as she was in an old pair of Kim's sweat shorts and an old cotton t-shirt, Shego made an adorably pathetic invalid: more the former than the latter, and none of it too her liking. As all of Shego's sleepwear was silk and not immune to vomit, cold sweats or repeated washings, Kim's old house clothes were pressed into service.

No longer cutting a deadly or strikingly sexy figure (despite Kim's curve-huggingly snug shorts and tight top), the ill Shego inspired sympathy instead of what she usually –and preferably- struck into the hearts of others: pants-wetting fear or covetous, tongue-lolling lust.

With her feverishly dizzy head it was slow going from her bed to the threshold of the guest bathroom, her second home for the last 24 hours. The thick-padded carpet under her bare feet felt like dry, shifting sand to the aching muscles and joints in her legs and hips. Despite that, Shego was thankful the room had its own bathroom, if only to save her a little shred of dignity when vomiting or perched atop the comfortably cool, porcelain throne, "peeing out her butt" as she described it.

Midstream, in the midst of her relief, Shego's other appetites reared their ugly heads as her stomach growled for reasons other than signaling the round-trip of another meal. More than a day on a steady diet of evilly bland crackers, ginger ale, rice mush, and sports drinks had left her abused body and mind in a state of revolt: it wanted _real _food! Badly.

Realistically, the odds were against her keeping down (or even getting) the Vitamin B-eef her fevered mind and salivating body were now craving:

A prime, dry-aged, grass-fed organic, one and three-quarter inch porterhouse steak; massaged with salt, fresh cracked black pepper and the right seasonings; all grilled to a mouthwatering rare over a deliciously and heavenly smoky wood fire of tamarack and apple wood… a Roquefort blue cheese and chive cream sauce for dipping, with sides of wild, sautéed cremini, shiitake, porcini, and Portobello mushrooms over a decadently creamy, buttery risotto… And Guinness! My god, how she wanted a pint of the creamy black gold! And cake! Top it all off with a large piece of decadent chocolate cake with sinful chocolate buttercream frosting and a tall glass of whole milk.

Her stomach growled again, shaking its fists in angry protest.

It wasn't an exaggeration to say Shego would have killed for it, stewing in her sudden hunger sitting on the toilet, Kim's shorts and her Tinkerbelle panties around her ankles (a memento of happier times). Sadly, she knew the odds of that feast A) materializing from the ether and B) her being able to keep it down, were less than, well, Mickey surviving their next encounter, she smirked grimly with satisfaction.

However… some of Kim's mother's homemade, from scratch, chicken soup -leftovers from the night before- would do handsomely, with a much better chance of her not hurling it from her guts at high velocity into a toilet bowl. In fact, to Shego, the thought of slowly nursing a large steaming bowl of Anne's chicken soup –with chunks of oven-roasted chicken, made with homemade chicken stock, carrots, celery, leak, thyme and homemade noodles- sounded like a big, fuzzy warm hug from the inside out.

Heavenly grilled bovine would have to wait.

Washing up, Shego's first impulse as she looked at her pale self in the bathroom mirror, was to pitifully moan out her request for soup and let her redheaded nursemaid fetch it to her bedside. With her bladder relieved, the bed's siren song was quickly tempting her poor, aching body to crawl back into its comforting embrace. Plus, the thought of being hand-fed by her baby did sound appealing. Sadly, Kimmie's sexily scandalous (tight and short) black latex nurse's outfit (with matching _Come-Fuck-Me_ heels) was back in their Go City penthouse, Shego pouted.

At the threshold of the en suite bathroom, looking over her inviting bed, Shego paused. A thought occurred to her while she rode out another bout of dizziness, gripping the doorframe for balance. It was entirely possible that young nurse Possible would nix the idea of soup altogether for the more conservative torture of bland nothingness and clear liquids… And Shego couldn't have that, or rather, her soul couldn't, thus tipping her hand would be disastrous. _No Kimmie, _she decided.

With sadness, Shego bid her fluffy down pillows and cloud-like bedding adieu; _Operation: Chicken Soup for the Sexy Thief's Soul, _was a go!

"Man the fort, bub," Shego weakly saluted Kim's well-loved pandaroo near her pillow, before sloppily securing her corvine mane into a ponytail with the band on her wrist. Slipping her feet into Kim's painfully cute, fuzzy pink bunny slippers, the walking wounded made slow, shuffling steps out into the hardwood hallway on her way to the main floor kitchen.

Without the Possible family, or the twins at the very least, the house felt like a museum, grand and quiet.

_Jetlag? _The absence of a stereo or television, really, any noise from her girlfriend, got Shego thinking._ Maybe I wasn't the only one taking a nap after breakfast? _But with her lover's old bedroom in the opposite direction and _up _a set of steep stairs… Going downhill towards the kitchen on the first floor, letting gravity do most the work was about all that Shego could do at the moment. She'd worry about getting back upstairs _after _soup –it was an instant gratification thing.

In the midst of her speculation as to her girlfriend's whereabouts, Shego heard the front door of the Possible's home open animatedly as a fresh burst of vitality enlivened the house's peace. _There she is, _Shego smiled warmly, shuffling along.

Coming to the top of the stairs Shego could just partially make out the flushed skin of her redhead's shapely bare legs and running shoes. With each quiet step down, the back of her girlfriend revealed itself. Like her stomach before it, Shego's libido growled at the visual feast laid out before her eyes as an entirely new hunger welled-up in her.

Snug, shiny electric blue, nylon running shorts and white, short sleeve running top; ipod secured to her bicep; her lion's mane of blazing, fiery red hair fanned wildly out across her back to her shoulder blades; healthy, sweaty and flushed, creamy peach colored skin, kissed by autumn's nip; her narrow waist and the sinful curves of her body; those oh-so long, shapely and toned legs and that _killer _hot ass, round and firm, yet still juicy… Prime beef had _nothing _on Prime Kimmie, she smirked, unconsciously licking her lips.

Certainly she was sick; her body and joints ached, her head felt fuzzy followed by dizziness if she moved too quickly when getting up or laying down. Shego felt like week-old dog shit dried up in the sun. But as Shego slowly, quietly made her way to the main floor, behind the back of her unsuspecting girl –who was busy gulping water from a bottle while taking in the view from the window over the kitchen sink, earphones in, absorbed in the post workout rush of endorphins- the tiny pilot light of Shego's lust had just flamed on, and her baby was the fuel.

As virulent as the opportunistic, foreign invader may have been, the virus lay impotent before her feelings for her lover. And the feelings were _always_ there, with varying intensity. To touch her, to please her… And right now?

Well, by outward appearances, Shego was one sick, hurting puppy. Inside however, she was a burly, lecherous, cartoon wolf drooling hungrily, lasciviously at _her_ baby… and her baby was looking _so damned good; _positively delectable, in the fiery vixen's _very _well informed opinion.

_Hell_… Shego leered appreciatively over Kimmie's sexy posterior from head to toe. _Even in a Bee Keeper's suit she'd look good_. _Definitely, good enough to eat, _Shego's smirk grew wickedly broader as her inner wolf licked its impressive jaws, its mouth all set for a royal feast. Where was that Roquefort blue cheese and chive cream sauce when she needed it!?

_Besides, nobody ever gave their girl the flu by going down on them, right?_ And Shego now had a _powerful _hankerin' for some Princess. Fuck the soup! Or rather, _fuck the Princess. Soup after. _That was a _much _better idea in Shego's opinion.

Her former employer, and now occasional, Friday night karaoke buddy, often complained "ninjas make more noise than you do, Shego," and it was true, they did. Hidden as she was inside the warmly lit foyer, ogling her Kimmie, Shego cranked her stealth skills to eleven –closer to seven and three-quarters actually, given her sickness- as she crept as quietly as cotton balls, now stalking her prey.

In her great illness, it took all of Shego's powers of concentration and skill to make her body perform, as she needed it to, stalking ever closer to her temptingly unsuspecting lover. Her lover and prey that hadn't sensed her, that was still with her back to her. Her prey that was now torturously and languidly stretching her gloriously sinful, finger-lickin' glutes and hamstrings; standing, bent in half with her chest firmly pressed against her thighs, hugging her legs with her fiery hair cascading down towards the floor.

If she hadn't been running a fever already, the sight of her girlfriend's long, toned legs and pert, sensual, succulent bottom clad in those -almost indecently so- taught, electric blue, nylon running shorts, the outline of her thong just visible against the straining, stretched fabric… well, it was enough to make the Thief supernova.

Slowly and with amazing, languorous grace, Shego's redhead righted herself one vertebra at a time, rolling her spine till she stood upright. Her arms clasped together, reaching towards the heavens had raised the hem of her clingy and damp, white synthetic, short-sleeve running top, exposing the creamy skin at the small of her back.

In mid-step along the hardwood floor of the foyer just outside the kitchen, Shego had to pause and steady herself as a fresh wave of dizziness blurred her vision temporarily. Her world became double and very fuzzy, well, fuzzier than a few moments before.

She was close now. Close enough to see the glistening, jewel-like rivulets of sweat bead up and roll down along the small of her exposed back; close enough to the overwhelming aphrodisiac of her lover's warm and heady natural scent (like floral vanilla and newborn babies with a hint of sweet musk and sweat). Her lust raging, flames licking higher and higher, Shego called on all her reserves to steel herself and press on.

In the ultimate and unwitting tease, her prey removed her damp, clingy shirt to expose her black, racer back running bra underneath. The sight of so much flushed, perfect skin that begged to be worshiped by her hands and mouth; that was the straw to break the last of Shego's resolve. The Big Bad Wolf was loose, and it was then, in the Possible's beautiful kitchen, at close quarters to her prey, that Shego pounced on her Little –_sexy_- Red Riding Hood.

To an outward observer, Shego simply disappeared, like some specter. One second she was just outside an arm's length, the next, Shego was molded against her prey's back, both arms moving, encircling for a split attack as she ground her pelvis forward into her lover's ass.

In the third second, one hand had claimed its rightful place (in Shego's opinion, at least), slipping underneath the sweaty waistband of her running shorts, along flushed skin, in-between the damp heat of her lover's thighs with firm, expert rubbing pressure while the other hand palmed an ample breast, kneading it wantonly over her running bra. Lastly, in the top half of that third second, Shego kissed the nape of her lover's neck, nuzzling it before gently biting it naughtily.

* * *

Outside, a startled, blood-curdling shriek filled the air from the open kitchen window. Birds bolted skyward from a copse of yellowing aspens that bordered the Possible's home. Nearby, a black cat from the neighborhood, regally perched on a large rock sunning himself, paused cleaning his paws mid-stroke as he cranked his ears in their direction, but did nothing more.

* * *

In the sixth second, just before Shego blacked out, hurtling ass-over-head through space in what felt like slow motion, two thoughts flitted across her attention before the pain of sudden impact and oblivion: 1) _that sublimely supple and ample breast was much more than a handful_ and 2) _When did Kimmie get as tall as me…? Or as "ample?"_

When consciousness finally broke over Shego again, a fresh and lively pain, a full-force ache over her whole fevered body, had replaced the once dull ache of her joints and throbbing head. This morning, Shego didn't think she could have felt worse than she did. She was wrong.

As her senses slowly returned, like swimming up to the surface of the ocean from the depths, her vision cleared. She found herself lying down on the massive, leather couch in the Possible's study, a down pillow under her head and something taped securely to her forearm. Through blurring vision and with great effort, Shego raised her arm to stare at the IV secured there before dropping her leaden arm back down to the soft couch; even that hurt to do. She lay there for a few moments as the rest of her faculties struggled back on-line.

"I'm sorry for throwing you across the kitchen. You… _really _startled me."

Forcing her blurry eyes to focus, Shego looked upward from her pillow -set on the lap of(?)- into the blazing, redheaded halo above her and a familiar voice chilled her blood in shock. It was softly playful, tender and appraising… but also authoritative with a sultry undertone. It was…

_Oh, Fuck…_

"I'm sorry I couldn't take you back up to the guest bedroom. You'd probably be more comfortable there. But I'm a surgeon," Anne said, fully dressed again in her running outfit, "not a firefighter. I couldn't get your deadweight" –at the words 'dead weight' the bottom dropped out of Shego's stomach as she gulped- "up the stairs by myself, well, without risking further injury. If I dropped you…?" Anne chuckled a little to herself. "Well, I don't think my daughter would like it if I broke her girlfriend… more so, anyways."

_Oh… Fuck… Me… _Shego wished the earth would swallow her up whole as her memories of their recent, shared past came urgently and blaringly to the forefront of her mind like a great, fiery explosion. The _feeling_ of Anne in her hands, the feeling of _her_ flushed skin, _her_ intoxicating smell, and the sublime damp heat between…

In a panic, Shego made to sit up and flee. Were she a beaver she'd have gladly gnawed her own arm off to flee from the iron jaws of this fresh calamitous misery. Only Anne's surprising strength and Shego's own poor state easily persuaded the sick woman: moving was _not _in her best interest and that Shego was fucked, but not like she'd hoped for. Resigned to her fate, a tidal wave of ill-feeling and guilt crested over her already downtrodden self as she settled back on Anne's lap.

Shego ran her hand over the IV in her arm. Casting her eyes to the floor, past the IV bag hung next to them, sat Anne's two large paramedic's kits open on the floor by the couch: everything an ER doc could want, outside of the ER. As if reading Shego's mind, Anne continued while Shego flinched at attacks that never came.

"Dehydration. And your electrolytes are probably too low. I knew we should have taken you to the hospital-"

"No hospitals," Shego croaked, her voice unsteady and parched like it hadn't been used in ages.

"I know, I know… but, at the very least I could have taken you to my office exam room. You're far too pale, or rather, _paler_ than usual," Anne smiled compassionately. "You're a little bruised from your fall-"

_Fall…? Fall!? You mean from where you threw me, the master thief and martial artist like some helpless white-belt or sack of potatoes, you mean, _Shego added internally. Her pride bruised more than her body.

"_-_and banged around, but no serious harm done. With some IV fluids and electrolytes, by this afternoon, you should feel quite a bit bett_-_ "

"God, I'm so sorry!" Shego blurted out through the overwhelming guilt that eclipsed her self-pity at having been manhandled so easily. With an understanding smile Anne dismissed it, shaking her head down at the young woman in her lap, trying to still her.

"Like I said," Anne blushed at her own strength, having taken down arguably one of the most dangerous women in the world… by throwing her ass-over-heels, leaving a massive impact crater in her kitchen drywall. "It was an accident" –at least Anne _hoped _it was an accident, a fevered delusion, perhaps- "these things, well, you startled me pretty good. And with you being as sick as you are, well, frankly I am surprised to see you up and around. I was about to come up and check on you when…" Anne's voice trailed off.

"From the back," Shego groaned sheepishly, guilt forcing her to look anywhere but at the kind –_incredibly_ forgiving and understanding- soul above her. "I thought you were Kimmie…"

_It was just an accident, Anne. See? Ac-ci-dent. Nothing more. Jesus, with her fever she might mistake James for Kimmie, or even Kim's friend, Monique… or even Rufus! But… _Vivid recollections of Shego's expert hand between her thighs brought a light blush to her cheeks._ My god, those hands- _Anne shook off her wandering mind, forcing herself to refocus.

"She got called away on a mission this morning. 'Something local,' Anne said. 'Nothing difficult,' but when is it ever difficult with my daughter," she smiled knowingly. "She did leave a note by your bedside in the guestroom, but…" a tiny blush, part shame and part stupidity, spread across Shego's already flushed cheeks, "I'm guessing you didn't see it?"

The soft humor in Anne's voice and the kindnesses lavished upon her sick self went far to assuage some of large parts of Shego's raging guilt, while it fanned the flames of guilt in others. She had _lewdly_ groped and _nearly_ fingered her way to third-base (more like rounding third and heading full-tilt for home plate) with _Kim's mother!_ Lost in her head, Shego did not notice the cool, damp washcloth Anne had produced from the air, as if by magic.

In Shego's fevered state, the washcloth Anne held against her forehead was nothing short of an Angel's mercy, bordering on heavenly against her burning skin. Nothing could stop Shego's moans of deeply felt appreciation. In her book, the doctor was ascending quickly into the vaunted ranks of Shego's favorite people –_definitely _in the top five, Shego estimated.

An upwelling of fresh guilt prompted another round of apologies from the weakened woman, along the same lines of mistaken identity to which Anne became thoughtful for a few moments.

"Well, perhaps…" Anne couldn't help the small twinge of flattery she felt at having been mistaken for her daughter, nearly twenty years her junior. "When I was younger; she looks like I did in my teens. Now?" Anne chuckled ruefully, "well, I _did_ grow out my hair again, so we're roughly the same color and length, but… I'm _definitely_ much more…"

"Voluptuous. Statuesque…?" Shego interrupted unconsciously, before wondering _where the fuck her brains were at!_

A crimson blush like wildfire over dry grasslands swept over Anne's checks.

_So… that's where Kimmie gets it from._ Shego may have been sick, but she could not miss the similarities between mother and daughter, which momentarily got her mind wondering about other possibilities and similarities –none of them clean or wholesome- before Anne embarrassedly continued.

"I-uh… was going to say _older_."

"You're kidding?" Shego fixed the neurosurgeon with a slightly incredulous stare, all guilt temporarily forgotten. _Does the woman not own a mirror!?__ "_You're not kidding. Ask a woman who knows," Shego looked away slightly, her own mortification coloring her cheeks as the physical memories of her hands and body became brightly vivid in her mind's eye. When she woke up this morning, this was the _last _fucking thing Shego expected to be talking about with Kim's mother, or anyone for that matter!

Quietly, reverently, timidly Shego added, "_nothing_, and I do mean _nuh-thing,_ about you is 'old.'"

Anne's blush raged deeper, further down the color spectrum. With a slightly goofy embarrassed look, Anne played with a lock of her hair, as she shied away from her patient's eyes.

_Kim does the same thing when she's embarrassed or nervous or… _Shego mused.

The typically unshakable surgeon with nerves of steel was at a loss to string words together. It took a few beats before her derailed train of thought jumped back onto the tracks; more like the capable and intelligent Women of Steel and less like a nervous and shy, giggly tween idiot on her first date.

"I… well…"

"I mean, seriously," Shego pressed on, "you're what… Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?"

"Forty-one, actually."

"Bullshit! No…? Really!?" Shego's sudden outburst startled Anne, causing her to jump slightly. _This Honey Pot is… _"Fuck me." Shego had _not _meant to say those words aloud, or with just a hint of what sounded like a longing petition and awe.

Anne blushed more wildly as Shego goggled openly, mouth slightly agape at the impossibility of it. This… _beauty_, this heartbreaker –whose splendor was normally hidden under a surgeon's blocky, asexual scrubs or finely tailored (but _too _conservative, in her opinion) skirt suits and dresses- was _not_ forty-one. _No fucking way!_

"You mean to tell me," Shego deadpanned, "you've squeezed out three kids, you're in your forties and_, and,_ you've got _that_ body!?"

Unbidden into her mind, Shego had the strong, overwhelming urge to see _all_ of her. To pour the voluptuous and statuesque Anne into one of Kimmie's tiny, more risqué black string-bikinis; the mental image of Anne spilling out, barely contained by the almost inadequate stretch fabric made Shego's monstrously overdeveloped Id purr like rumbling thunder, before her Superego bitch-slapped it in reprimand.

Anne nodded, mumbling slightly under the weight of Shego's unbelieving stare. "Well, clean living… palates, swimming, jujitsu, some weights and... and stuff…" Anne's voice trailed off.

Falling back, succumbing as a fresh wave of dizziness crashed over her, Shego closed her eyes, wearily spent, her smile just as drained. "I pray to God that Pumpkin got your genes."

Anne couldn't hold in the musical laughter that escaped from her belly, eyes twinkling down as her laugher shook her daughter's one-of-a-kind girlfriend. For a few quiet moments, neither women spoke in the silence that followed Anne's outburst.

"Thank you, for not… I mean, and for… I-uh… I..." Shego, unable to speak further around the lump forming in her throat, simply whispered out, "thank you," again, closing her eyes as they welled up. Forgiveness, understanding, and compassion were three _very _unfamiliar and genuinely overwhelming things for her.

With that, and her body reminding her how truly sick she was, how much she physically and mentally felt like trodden on dog shit stuck to someone's boot, Shego sunk back further into the inviting depth of the down pillow cradled underneath her head in Anne's lap.

_Thankfully, _Shego thought, _I didn't throw up on her._ _The blessings of small miracles._

In companionable silence the two women relaxed, Anne smoothing back Shego's corvine mane from her feverish forehead, taking time to adjust the cold washcloth on her burning brow. Under Anne's gentle ministrations, like a mother would care for her own daughter -indeed, when her own Kimmie-Cub was younger and sick, stroking her daughter's hair worked with the same overwhelming success- it didn't take long till a deep sleep claimed the downtrodden woman in her lap.

Kicking off her running shoes, Anne raised her feet slowly to the leather couch's ottoman, settling herself in. Later, she knew, when Kim came home they'd help Shego back to the guestroom, into a bath, some clean clothes and then some lunch, perhaps soup. But for now, Anne was perfectly content to let the poor, exhausted girl sleep. As for the _other _matter, well… Anne was perfectly willing to let that be. Not that she'd forget the experience any time soon.

Not disturbing her guest as she moved, her free hand pulled an alpaca wool blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over the sleeping girl in her lap. Unseen minutes counted off, giving way to an hour in the dense, library-quiet and peaceful home. Anne continually, almost absentmindedly, languidly stroked out a gentle rhythm though Shego's soft hair and scalp.

Letting her mind wander rudderless, Anne admired the riotous beauty of leafy autumn colors and the cool, yet lazily comforting October sunshine through her study's large, panoramic picture windows. In the embracing calm, it wasn't long till Anne's drooping eyelids signaled her own tired surrender.

Later that afternoon, as the long fingers of autumn sunshine stretched out over Colorado in the grips of fall, a certain teen hero made her way home, the day saved once again. Home to a quiet house; a quick reconnaissance of her room –stripping to a comfortably worn old t-shirt and shorts, barefoot- then to the guestroom; her lover's absence from the disheveled bed piqued Kim's interest. Flattened, laid low with the flu, meant Shego couldn't have gone far. It wasn't until, as quiet as a country mouse, Kim rounded the corner into her parent's study to the heart-warming surprise that awaited her discovery.

There, on the brown, over-stuffed leather couch, amongst the warmth and sweet smells of countless, old, well-loved books that lined nearly every wall; the reading lamps and her mother's large mahogany desk; there was her lover, resting, asleep on her side, an IV secured to her arm. Like a small girl, clad in a slightly too small pair of Kim's shorts and cotton t-shirt, Shego'd shifted in her sleep, partially covered by a wool lap blanket pulled from the back of the couch.

Her face nestled against Anne's stomach; Shego lay curled up into the elder Possible whose arms pacified her. Off beside them on the couch, a white goose down pillow lay forgotten as Shego's impressive mane -like black diamond sable fur- flowed over Anne's lap, a river of pearl-black water. Shego's head rising and falling with the slow ebb and flow of Anne's tummy as she slept. Her mother, just as dead to the world and dressed for running she noted, lay, head back, enveloped in the couch cushions, cradling the other woman.

_Mom must have had a cancellation this morning, or completely rescheduled, _Kim mused.

Just looking at the two gave Kim the urge to snuggle up behind her lover on the couch like a couple of nesting spoons, for a nap of her own. She'd been up several times during the night with Shego: helping her to the bathroom or rubbing her back through the waves of nausea and rounds of sickness, humoring her feverishly wild and gruesomely detailed revenge fantasies (at least Kim _hoped _Shego wasn't serious), before cleaning her up and tucking her back into bed.

Despite the overwhelmingly endearing and priceless nature of the situation, not to mention the myriad of questions running through her mind, Kim didn't have the heart to interrupt the tranquility in front of her. Answers could wait, and her lover sorely needed rest, and so it appeared her mother did too. Creeping back towards the kitchen, Kim went in search of a snack only to goggle at the large, (wo)man-sized impact crater in the drywall next to their stainless steel refrigerator. Snack in hand, Kim made off to another sunny, quiet spot with a blanket and a good book, before she had a nap of her own… but _not_ before capturing the moment many, _many_ times (and from several angles) with her Kimmunicator.

_Fin._


End file.
